


a different kind of case

by orithea (orphan_account)



Series: tumblr prompts and 221bees [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is an artist, M/M, Sherlock hates secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a secret hobby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a different kind of case

**Author's Note:**

> An anon tumblr prompt: Leave a “Paint Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about one character drawing a picture of another [like one of your french girls~ be it painting them or drawing them, maybe offering a picture of them as a gift, feel free to specify.]

Sherlock doesn’t like the fact that John still keeps secrets from him. There are things that John doesn’t tell him, and that is mostly okay. The things about the past—well, as much as Sherlock would love to know everything that there is to know about John, he can certainly understand not wanting to share the more difficult portions. The things that John doesn’t tell him about the present tend towards the boring and mundane. Perfectly acceptable.  
  
But, oh, the secret  _things_  that he keeps hidden, those tangible items locked in a case under his bed, are another story entirely. John knows that he knows about that case made of old, cracked, blue leather and held closed with a lock so easily picked that Sherlock could have broken into as a child. John also knows that he understands that to open it would be a breach of trust far beyond breaking open the safe that holds John’s illegal service weapon or rearranging the socks in John’s drawers into an inferior imitation of his own sock index.  
  
Sherlock leaves the case alone, as much as the knowledge of it sitting there, unexplored, containing who-knows-what mysteries makes his fingers itch with the desire to have his hands on it. (He does touch it once, just once, long enough to test the weight of the contents and hear the thud of something—what could it possibly be?—rolling around inside. John catches him in the act and tells him to stay out of his bloody fucking room and pointedly makes only one cup of tea at a time, for himself only, until the incident is forgotten.)  
  
\---  
  
Sherlock discovers what’s inside by no cunning plan of his own, but due to negligence on John’s part. There’s a call from Lestrade—two dead bodies discovered lying perpendicular in the basement level of a shop, same time of death but different apparent causes—just past 11:00 in the evening and Sherlock bellows for John to come along. John had obviously been busy doing something, because he comes thundering down the stairs from his room in what any other person would consider a normal amount of time, but which Sherlock calculates to have involved at least fifteen seconds of indecision over whether or not to come with or shout down that he’s not Sherlock’s lap dog and does have a life, ta. John chooses the sensible option, because even after so long he can’t just pass up a chance to tell Sherlock he’s brilliant.  
  
\---  
  
“Your room,” Sherlock rumbles, voice pitched impossibly low. His face is buried against John’s neck, tongue tasting the pulse of his carotid artery while they pause on the landing.  
  
“Something wrong with yours?” John asks. His voice is surprisingly steady, considering.  
  
“Experiment on the sheets. And by experiment I mean—”  
  
“Don’t. No need to explain,” John cuts him off with a laugh. “Yeah, c’mon.” He grabs Sherlock’s hand and pulls him behind.  
  
Ah, but those fifteen seconds of indecision didn’t include any cleaning up, and there sits the case, splayed open on the bed with contents exposed for all unbearably nosy consulting detectives to see.  
  
“Fuck,” John groans, and rushes over to throw papers and pencils haphazardly into the case. He knows that it’s too late for Sherlock not to see, but …  
  
“This is your secret?” Sherlock asks incredulously. He leans easily past John to pick up one of the papers. It’s a drawing done in graphite pencil on medium thickness, cream colored drawing paper, of a woman sitting on a park bench, child playing in her lap.  
  
“Some people don’t like to be complete show offs about their hobbies,  _Sherlock_.” John tries to snatch the paper away, but it’s easily held out of his reach.  
  
Sherlock studies it, pretending to be oblivious to John’s irritation. “Can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to show it off. It’s quite good.”  
  
“Thanks,” John says immediately with well-trained politeness. “Not that that’s the point, though. It’s private.”  
  
“Why, though?” Sherlock reaches for another drawing. It’s Molly, he realizes, her hair falling forward over one side of her face as she carefully contemplates the incision she’s making on the body on the table before her.  
  
“Because some things are just  _private_  sometimes, Sherlock. You don’t go around playing your violin for everyone, do you?”  
  
“I play it for you,” Sherlock says pointedly. Before John can reply he adds, “clearly someone in your early life discouraged you from sharing your artistic talents. Possibly your mother, but more likely your alcoholic father. He seems the most disapproving figure in your life, and Harry takes after him.”  
  
“Hm. Ever consider that this is why I hid this from you? Because I didn’t want to be deduced? Have the meaning of everything drawn from something that I enjoy?”  
  
“And what might we deduce from this?” Sherlock asks. John has completely given up on trying to hide the rest of the drawings from him, and his hand sifts through them until he finds one of himself. In the drawing he is sleeping, lying on his stomach with a pillow shoved more under his chest than his head and curls splayed wild over the arm against which his head rests.  
  
“You might deduce that I have some amount of affection for you, even though you’re an impossible human being and I hate most things about you,” John says with exasperation. His face is more tender than his tone would imply.  
  
“I think we both can agree that this was a silly secret,” Sherlock tells him. In truth he’s a little upset that he wasted so many thoughts on it. He was sure that it was going to be something truly surprising, like murder weapons he was hiding for an old army mate who cracked and went bad and only had John to help him get away with it. John was a good friend that way.  
  
“No, we cannot both agree. But … you can keep that, if you like.”  
  
“I will,” Sherlock says. “I’ve always wanted to look at myself from impossible angles.”  
  
“Vain.”  
  
“And now I would advise that you lock this all up again, unless you’re comfortable with some of these papers being badly damaged.”  
  
“Why, have something planned?” John smirks.  
  
“Don’t be dense.”


End file.
